


In All The Narrow Spaces

by Littlebiscuits



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Bunker, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Religious Themes, Sharing a Bed, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 23:58:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16459556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlebiscuits/pseuds/Littlebiscuits
Summary: There are two blankets in the bunker. Both of them thin and scratchy, barely long enough to stretch from one end of the bed to the other. Rook doesn't want to call them not fit for their purpose, but it's a close run thing.





	In All The Narrow Spaces

There are two blankets in the bunker. Both of them thin and scratchy, barely long enough to stretch from one end of the bed to the other. Rook doesn't want to call them not fit for their purpose, but it's a close run thing.

He doesn't understand how Dutch could have been so obsessive about every detail, when he was stocking the bunker, and still overlook this one thing. It's becoming more of a problem every day, because it's been steadily getting colder for weeks, temperature dropping past freezing and into nuclear winter. And Rook really fucking hopes that's just a joke his brain wants to make, and not an actual reality. Though it is January, judging by Rook's hopefully semi-accurate circling of last year's calendar, that still hangs crookedly on the wall, so it could just be a normal Winter. 

He doesn't suppose the distinction matters if they both freeze to death though.

It doesn't help that Rook only has one outfit, that was perfect for the late Spring weather when he chose it. He's been washing and wearing it for months, because everything of Dutch's is too small. Joseph is an awkward shape too, so he has one pair of a jeans and a dozen ill-fitting t-shirts, that he seems disinclined to wear. Though, admittedly, they're doing laundry less often now, since it takes days to dry, and so wandering around half wrapped in blankets has become something of a necessity. 

It's getting harder to sleep, harder to find a position that conserves Rook's own warmth, that keeps all his limbs under the blanket and out of the cold air. He's started waking with a headache, tired, hungry like he's been burning fuel all night trying to keep warm. Which is just making new problems for them, since the food supply isn't endless. The longer it goes on, the more obvious the solution becomes. Though Rook isn't entirely happy about it, for a variety of reasons.

Rook drags the blanket tighter around his shoulders, and goes to find Joseph.

The bunker is bigger than average, but he can still follow the quiet sounds of life through the corridors. The slow murmur that vibrates off the walls and drags over Rook's skin, like all it wants is proof that there's someone else alive down here with him.

Joseph is at his wall of contemplation, where he's taped sermons, and scripture, and the marked photographs of his siblings, to the bare metal. Where he preaches to no one, and writes a new gospel, talks quietly to himself, or to God, depending on who he thinks is listening. The second thin, grey blanket has fallen free of one bare shoulder, material gathered in a fold at the bend of his arm, while he speaks, while he occasionally gestures, or leans forward to touch part of the wall. 

Rook knows before he crouches behind him, that Joseph's bare skin is going to be freezing cold. He can't stop himself from testing it though, before making an irritated noise and drawing the blanket back up.

"You can't keep zoning out in your little church, you're going to freeze to death."

"I was aware of the temperature," Joseph reassures him, like he knows Rook was worried, and that's enough to warm him in some way. Rook's too cold and too tired to start another argument about Joseph taking better care of himself. 

"Let me guess, this is a test?" Everything is a test for Joseph, a task he's been given, a path he has to follow. Though it all still makes no sense to Rook, since they're both trapped underground, and there's no one left, nothing he can accomplish any more, not for God, or for anyone else. 

"No, it's Winter in Montana," Joseph says simply, but not happily, like someone who longs for somewhere else. "And we are badly equipped for the worst of it." He lets Rook help him to his feet, though judging by the stiff, awkward way that he rises, and draws the blanket in tighter with a slow, breathy shiver, he's been sitting there for too long. 

"We can't sleep alone any more." Rook hopes that comes out sounding practical, rather than some sort of strange demand that Joseph come to his bed. "We need to conserve heat."

But Joseph just nods, like he understands, like he agrees with Rook's assessment. 

Rook doubts his room is any warmer than Joseph's, he simply goes there out of habit, and Joseph follows him. The sheets on the bed are freezing, when Rook pulls them up and strips them back, and the mattress is cheap and thin, it barely seems to hold any of Rook's own warmth, no matter how little he moves. But he strips his clothes off, and then slides in, shifting back to leave Joseph room to lay next to him. He's hoping that both blankets together will at least do something to help with the angry bite of the air.

Joseph pushes his own clothes free, bare skin pale and pinched with cold, nudity no longer quite as awkward as it used to be, due to the strange, forced closeness of this place. Though the thought of having Joseph laid against him, of having Joseph curled into him, where there's no way to move away from the bare stretch of his body, Rook can't be quite as casual at the suggestion of that. Because it's been God knows how long since someone touched him, and he's not going to pretend that he hasn't thought about this. That he hasn't wondered if it's inevitable in some way, during the long months of sharing space, and air, and Joseph's constant need to reach out and touch him, like he's sometimes afraid that Rook is just a hallucination. 

But he grits his teeth and holds his breath, when Joseph folds in next to him, with his chilled hands and icy skin. There are bare spots of warmth on him, stomach, thighs, the bend of an elbow. Which is an unexpected, intimate knowledge, given to him all at once, though he has no idea what to do with it, where to put it inside his head.

Rook pulls Joseph's hands in, and presses them against the unhappy expanse of his ribcage, doesn't miss the way Joseph gives a low hiss, as if Rook is so warm that he hurts for a second. But he seems to take Rook's pull as permission, sliding his body closer still, and it takes them both a moment to work out how to fit together, how to settle their angles and hard edges. At first Rook is reluctant to tangle, to let Joseph press into him, thighs almost warm against and then between his own. But the search for warmth is a determined one, and eventually they're pressed tight in the bed, no space for cold air between them, bare skin to bare skin, a sudden moment of pressure and intimacy. 

Until all it would take is one slide, one push, one subtle movement, to make it something else entirely, a different search for warmth.

Rook can't stop thinking about it. Can't hope to shake the thought away, because Joseph is warm, and alive, all muscle over bone and softness in-between, skin pressing against his own on every breath.

It doesn't take long at all for his body, usually so obedient, to decide that it's had enough of being neglected, and it wants very much to take advantage of this, even though Rook can still see his breath in the dim light, and he's fairly sure he needs all of that blood to keep himself warm. This is a waste, he tells his body, but it doesn't listen.

"Did you bring me here to warm me, or to warm yourself?" Joseph's quiet question is a flare of heat against Rook's jaw and throat. Though the rest of him doesn't move, doesn't react, to press in or pull away.

Rook grits his teeth and exhales against the pillow, avoids Joseph's eyes, which always see far too much.

"If that's a subtle dig about the fact that I'm hard, save it. You're the only person I've touched for months." Which is a lie, it's been longer than months, weeks blurring into each other, while Eden's Gate crashed their way across the county, dragging Rook with them.

"It was not a condemnation," Joseph says softly, and Rook pretends he doesn't feel the way Joseph's hands shift slightly, as if to find a spot he hasn't chilled with his hands. Though he can't help but notice how much lower they end up, until they may as well be curled around his waist. "We are here alone together, as we were always meant to be."

Rook's not sure he's in the mood to hear the 'we're the last two people in the world, because God meant it this way,' speech again. It always depresses him, because they might not have destroyed everything, but they both definitely had a hand in the messy and unnecessary bleakness of the day after.

"We are family now," Joseph continues, which is another thing he feels compelled to remind Rook about every day. "We were meant to come together, to be joined in this way, there's no sin in it. I have been waiting for you to see it, to accept it."

"God, stop talking," Rook murmurs, because he's cold, and he's not sure he can bear Joseph's soft explanations of how he's fine with letting Rook's desires play out like they're supposed to, like Joseph is meant for him. It's too cold, and all Rook's body can hear is Joseph telling him that this is all ok, that he's allowed, that he wants Rook to touch him. Which would be less difficult if Rook didn't want it so much himself.

It's too cold for this, it's too cold, and if Rook had any sense he would let that frigid air bite at him until he believes it.

But it's been so fucking long, and everyone who would condemn him for it is already dead. Rook already feels like they've been here forever, and he's been grinding his way through so many of these days. He thinks it would be nice to feel alive again.

"I'm still not joining your church," Rook tells him, but he finds his face tucked down into Joseph's throat. And it's far too easy to turn his head and open his mouth on the skin, where it's warm and soft, feel the shuddering vibration of Joseph's shaky sigh, the way his head tips, ever so slightly, to give Rook access. It's almost like he's been waiting for this, waiting for Rook to acknowledge it, stop fighting it. Which just feels like Rook is letting Joseph win, finally, after all this time, letting him have what he wants, in all the ways he shouldn't.

"And yet you would worship at it," Joseph says quietly, though there's a pleased sort of encouragement there, an eagerness for Rook to continue. Joseph's hands slide up his body, curling at his shoulder, and the back of his neck. He draws Rook in, touches him gently and indulgently, like Rook invited him to his bed with smiles and kisses, rather than demands and necessity. 

Does it matter if Joseph wins? After all this time.

Rook's hands find Joseph's waist, pull him in closer, until Joseph's leg threads through his own, leaves them pressed groin to groin, and Rook is not the only one who's a solid, aching line. Not the only one who's breathing just a touch harder, and tugging at skin. Rook can't help the way his hand slides down between them, fingers drifting over the jerking warmth of Joseph's cock, which pushes into his palm with one slow sway of Joseph's hips. 

"You would open your mouth and give praise to it," Joseph adds shakily, while Rook touches him, there's something soft in his voice, and that no longer sounds quite so much like blasphemy, it sounds like a request. 

Rook grasps Joseph's jaw, turns his head, kisses him, like he's wanted to for months, never admitted to, never intended to. But Joseph's mouth opens easily, as if he's been waiting for Rook to do it, as if he always knew that he would eventually. There's impatience in it, a push that's determined to leave one of them pressed to the sheets.

"Would you like that?" Rook asks, between every grinding press of mouth. "Would you like me to open my mouth around you."

Joseph groans out a breath, fingers grasping at Rook's thighs and waist, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

Rook thinks about it, thinks about sliding down that pattern of tattoos and scars, and pulling Joseph's cock into his mouth. He thinks about letting Joseph tangle hands in his hair, guiding every slide of it, weight on his tongue and pressure on every nudging thrust. Where Rook would let him push in deep, and come down his throat. It's vivid enough that he can't breathe for a second, has to drag in Joseph's skin, so he has something to press and push against. It makes any protest that he doesn't want it a lie. But the cold air is still knifing in under the blankets, and Rook wants to stay pressed right where he is, against Joseph's skin, under the pull of his hands, between his thighs and away from the lash of bitter cold. 

Joseph seems to understand, because his hands move to clasp Rook's face, draw it close again, he chases away all the cold air between them to kiss him, over and over. 

Rook slides a hand up the back of Joseph's neck, finds the tight band in his hair and pulls it free, letting Joseph's hair come down in fine lines and reluctant curves. Joseph makes a sound, as if no one has ever dared, but his mouth presses against Rook's jaw, a sigh making its way free.

"What else does your church require?" Rook asks, fingers digging and curling in Joseph's hair, which is warm at his scalp, but slippery cold at the ends. 

"It requires that we be bound together," Joseph says, soft like it's something he's thought about, something he's been trying to convince Rook of for months. Only Rook hasn't been listening, hasn't wanted to listen. But there's an eagerness to the words, to the press of Joseph's fingers. "That we swear loyalty to each other in the eyes of God."

"And if I don't believe?" Rook's voice comes out rough, mostly breath against Joseph's throat, while his hands slip down to grip warm skin, spreading Joseph's thighs, just a little, until he can slip his leg between them, and gently press up and in.

Joseph stops breathing for a second, swallow rolling in the stretch of his throat. If it's been forever for Rook - how long has it been for Joseph?

"Then I will put my faith inside you," he says hoarsely.

Which manages to be the most indecent thing Joseph's said so far, and all the air lodges in Rook's throat, caught on a swallow, tells him exactly how much he wants this.

Rook wonders if that's inevitable too. If that's where they're going to end up, no matter what happens here. If Rook will eventually let Joseph press in between his thighs, and stretch him open, bury himself in slow, greedy pushes, and then come inside him, like that's something that belongs to Joseph too. No demands, no fighting, just the slow ache of pressure, and fullness, and words whispered in the dark, where no one else can hear them.

"Would you like that?" Rook asks - can't help asking - though his voice cracks, shakes out. 

Joseph's answer is in the way he turns his nails into Rook's skin, pushes, and rolls him, then holds Rook down in the sheets, knee pinning his thigh to the bed. Joseph sinks his weight onto him like he's thinking about it, about claiming a space inside Rook for himself. There's less warm self-indulgence to his kisses now, they're wet and open, demanding, frustrated and eager for Rook to stop teasing, to do as he's told, to let Joseph have this, to let them be what they're meant to be.

Joseph's hair has fallen around his face, eyes dark, and he's breathing quick, small breaths like Rook has surprised him, shaken him into something human and real. Which Rook didn't know how much he'd wanted to see until he has it. He pulls Joseph in tighter, for the warmth, for the intimacy, for the genuine human need to make a fucking connection with the person he's going to be spending months, years - the rest of his life - with.

They're moving against each other in an awkward, restless rhythm, enough to tease, to dig in where Rook had tried to resist, to promise all the ways he could have this, all the things they could be together, if he just gives in, reaches out his hand and takes it.

Rook's upper chest and half his arm is out of the blankets, as well as the long line of Joseph's throat, and his right shoulder. But Rook doesn't feel cold, and Joseph doesn't protest, letting the grey material slip further, down the curve of his spine, when Rook pushes a hand down between them, so he can curl his fingers around Joseph's cock, around them both. It's an awkward hold, that jerks and catches at the stretch of his palm, but somehow still manages to leave them breathing out cracked moans, soft and desperate, trying to kiss when the pressure always pins Rook's hand to a stop. 

The rolling shove of their hips threatens to dislodge both blankets, but Joseph's other hand braves the cold to catch Rook's own, circle the wrist and pin it to the sheets. Until they're holding each other here, leaving no way for either of them to pull apart. 

It's not going to take much, the drag and press of Joseph's skin is too new, and the way he watches Rook through every second of it, like it's something he needs, leaves Rook coaxing him down, letting him rut into the grip Rook has on them both. Joseph's knee bites into his thigh when he pushes to a stop, gives a punched-out breath, that sounds like it hurts, fingers tightening on Rook's wrist, while Joseph comes against his stomach, and over the stuttering pull of his fingers, the flushed redness of Rook's own cock. It only takes a few more strokes, before Rook's there as well, breath falling out in pieces, all relief, and pleasure, and something that sounds like it might be surrender. Before he's straining upwards to kiss Joseph, to leave shaky words against his mouth - and Joseph's hands slip free of his wrist, and neck, to grasp his face and murmur his name.

Joseph doesn't move off of him after, only shifts up far enough to let Rook clean them both off with a corner of sheet, before settling over his arm, and the stretched line of his thigh.

Joseph isn't heavy so much as angular in odd places. But he's warm, and Rook's arm fits around him easily enough, hand spreading on the collection of raised lines and scored judgement on his back. He draws the blankets back around them both, curves them into the warm space they've created. Joseph is whispering promises of what they're supposed to be, what God wants them to be, against the sensitive skin of Rook's throat. 

Even if this is madness, it's not like it matters any more, it's not like it will hurt anyone.


End file.
